Add to that the fact that this killer was prey that tended to morph into predator. A lot was on the line here.

“What’s Renz?” Larry Fedderman asked, having caught the tail end of Quinn and Pearl’s conversation. He was standing by Mr. Coffee, pouring some of the steaming liquid into his mug. His white shirt cuff, which usually came unbuttoned because of the way he gripped pen or pencil, was still fastened, indicating that the day was young and he hadn’t yet made any notes.

“I think we all know the answer to that,” Pearl said.

Quinn went over and poured a mug of coffee for himself. Added some cream and stirred longer than was necessary. He was waiting for Sal Vitali and Harold Mishkin to arrive, the detectives who had worked so long as a team in the NYPD, and now were employed by Q&A. It was almost nine o’clock. Time for the morning meet, at which they all shared knowledge. Quinn was determined that everyone knew the same version of what was going on. It prevented a lot of wasted time and effort.

As Quinn took a careful, painful sip of the near-boiling coffee, Sal and Harold arrived. Sal, short and stocky and full of decisive movement, had a full head of wavy black hair just beginning to gray, and a voice that sounded like gravel in a bucket. His partner Harold was slender and balding, with a slight forward lean and a bushy gray mustache. He looked more like an actor who should be playing Mr. Chips in a movie than a cop. Sometimes Harold was difficult to figure out, especially for Sal. Both men were carrying flat white boxes with grease stains that somehow hadn’t gotten on their clothes.

“We got doughnuts,” Sal rasped.

Over by the coffee machine, Fedderman said, “We got coffee.”

“We got cholesterol,” Harold said.

Sal glared at him. “Don’t be crass, Harold.”

Pearl said, “Do you have something with cream filling?”

“We did,” Sal said. “Also with chocolate icing. Harold ate it.”

“Why?” Fedderman asked, sounding angry and puzzled. “He’s the one concerned about cholesterol.”

“I’ll compensate at lunch,” Harold said.

“You should have slapped it out of his hand,” Pearl said to Sal.

Quinn listened quietly. He knew that for whatever reason the ongoing angst among his detectives aided in their collective thought process. They were like oysters who needed agitation to produce pearls. They all knew that, but none of them would admit it except to him or herself. Better to maintain the productive balancing act.

Quinn walked over and leaned with his haunches on his desk. Crossed his arms. Pearl knew what his choice would be and brought him a chocolate-iced cake doughnut from one of the grease-stained boxes. Quinn took a sample bite. Terrific. He wasn’t sure where Sal and Harold got their doughnuts, or if they paid for them, and figured it wiser not to ask.

He glanced at his watch. Six minutes after nine. Everyone was here except for Jerry Lido, the Q&A tech whiz, who might be too hungover to struggle out of bed.

Nobody was talking right now, so Quinn jumped in:

“All the girls’ families have been notified,” he said, “at least in time for them not to learn about their daughters’ deaths on the news.”

“Musta been all kinds of hell,” Harold said. He had too much empathy for a cop, and occasionally threw up at crime scenes.

The street door opened, and warm air and exhaust fumes wafted into the office. A car horn honked three times, fast, outside, as if something had drawn the driver’s attention. Or as if to announce something with a trumpet. Coincidental, surely.

Officer Nancy Weaver entered. The NYPD liaison Renz had mentioned.

9

Weaver had worked with Q&A before. She would fit right in, as long as she and Pearl didn’t actually come to blows.

She was an attractive, compactly built brunette in her forties, with a keen intelligence and an overactive libido. She’d gotten the hell beaten out of her on her last go-round with Q&A, but she still had her slightly crooked grin and the same good-to-go glint in her brown eyes. Quinn heard she’d been working with the vice squad. Typecasting, he thought. Her sleeping with superior officers was legendary. She was known as the officer who had put the “cop” in “copulate.” It was all exaggerated and rather unfair, Quinn thought. On the other hand, how could he know?

She was wearing what looked like six-inch heels, a short, tight red skirt, and a form-fitting bowling team shirt lettered DO IT IN THE ALLEY. Dressed for work with the vice squad, Quinn hoped.

Weaver grinned and nodded a hello to all of them. She was carrying a cardboard brown accordion file tied with a brown cord that looked like a shoelace.

“Can you actually bowl in that outfit?” Pearl asked.

“When I do,” Weaver said, “it doesn’t matter where the ball goes.”

Quinn cut in before Pearl could reply. He told Weaver it was good to see her. He did admire her tenacity. As did Pearl, although Pearl was silent while the rest of Q&A welcomed Weaver. Quinn knew that the two women had some time ago come to an understanding with each other, something reminiscent of a Middle East treaty.

“I’ve got the first on-the-scene officers’ written statements here,” Weaver said, “along with their brief initial interviews of hotel guests in adjoining rooms, and potential witnesses.”

Quinn waved an arm, indicating that Weaver had the floor.

“Enlighten us,” he said.

Weaver moved to a spot near the center of the room. She said, “Grace Geyer, Christy Mathewson, Sheryl Stewart, Dawn Kramer, Lucy Mitchell. And their teacher and guide, Andria Bell.” Weaver looked up from the paper bearing the names. “The victims,” she said. “They seem to have little in common other than that they attend—attended—some academy in Cleveland and were chosen for the trip because of their interest and/or talent in art. Mitchell and Stewart were best friends and shared secrets. Grace Geyer was something of a daredevil and troublemaker. She was on probation—the school’s, not the law’s—and was on the tour primarily because she was the one with the most artistic talent.”

“Figures,” Harold said.

No one asked him why.

“The victims-to-be all checked in without anything unusual happening. Andria Bell asked the concierge down in the lobby about directions to the Museum of Modern Art. That was about it. The girls didn’t raise any hell or cause any trouble or play music too loud. The only other hotel guest who even recalls seeing them was a woman on the same floor, a writer named Lettie Soho—small h—down the hall about four rooms. She happened to take an elevator up from the lobby with them and saw them all go into their room. Everything seemed normal, she said. There were some giggles in the elevator. One of the girls poked another in the ribs. Their teacher tour guide gave them a look. Then they went out, and while Soho was trying to get her card key to work, she watched them all file into their suite. This was on the day of the crime, approximately an hour before they were killed. When Soho went down to the hotel restaurant for dinner, she saw the older woman, Andria Bell, let a man into the room.”

The Q&A detectives were silent and leaned slightly toward Weaver.

“Probably he was the killer,” Weaver said. “Soho didn’t get a good look at him before he went into the suite and the door closed.”

“But the uniforms got what Soho had to give. Some kind of description.”

“Yeah,” Weaver said. “Average size and build, but maybe taller or shorter. Hair brown or black, cut short or medium. Eyes maybe dark, or possibly blue. Wearing gray pants or maybe jeans. White or blue shirt. Possibly a tie, yellow or brown. Age, somewhere between late twenties, mid- or late forties.”